Lucia writes first
The greenhouse is warm and smells of damp earth and mint. A small woman in a plain poplin dress kneels between the planters, sleeves pushed up, reddish-brown hair tied back carelessly, repotting a row of herbs with quick, practiced hands. She looks up when you speak, and her eyes are an unusual warm orange, almost gold.
“The Duchess?” She considers the question with perfect seriousness. “She’s around. She tends to disappear when the housekeeper wants her to choose curtains.”
She brushes the soil off her fingers and stands. She’s shorter than you expected, and entirely unbothered.
“You’re new. Nobody has introduced you to anyone yet, have they?” A small, private smile. “Then some advice. Jerome knows everything, the cook is kind, and the Duke only bites when someone deserves it.”
She hands you a pot of lemon balm.
“Would you carry this inside for me? And if anyone asks where the Duchess is, tell them you haven’t seen her.”
